Mr. Redfern stood speechless for a moment. "I could not have a papist wife," he said slowly. "So this is my answer, is it?"
But Agnes had already turned away, and in a moment more was kneeling again beneath that faithful light, forgetting all but her love and gratitude; and as the lamps were lighted in the choir, the children's glad and rapturous voices chanted,
"Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in terra pax hominibus bonæ voluntatis."
THE CHAPEL.
On the outskirts of the city, where the poor and outcast dwell,
Is a humble little chapel, in its tower a sweet-voiced bell;
And beside its simple altar, with a smile serene and mild,
Stands a rudely-sculptured image of the Virgin and her Child.
In the early, dewy mornings, when the grass-grown walks are bright,
When beyond the chimneys glimmer the far mountain-tops with light,
Here a crowd of poor and lowly to the dust their heads incline,
As the chalice of salvation is uplifted o'er the shrine.
Yonder, in the great cathedral, oriel tints the banners stain,
On the purple and the mitre slanting down the pictured pane;
And the statues high in niches, and the chanting of the choir,
All art's mighty inspirations to the tired heart say, "Aspire!"
Here heaven's pure white light streams inward; here through open windows sweet
Blow the fresh airs on the wild flowers at the Virgin Mother's feet,
And sweet, silvery, girlish voices sweetly chant a simple strain,
Such as shepherds might have chanted on the old Chaldean plain.
Often when my heart grows restless, burdened with earth's cares, and sore,
Come I to this humble chapel, kneel down on the wooden floor;
Those poor ragged outcasts round me, praying side by side with them,
Wondrously I seem drawn nearer to the crib of Bethlehem.